The forsythia in the sloped gap between 84 and Asylum Ave 
were like harbingers.
They covered the hillside in gold, announcing the hope of brighter days ahead
and sowing forgetfulness, even forgiveness 
in muddy dirty snowmounds and roadsides.
We would notice them for just a few weeks each year 
when you drove me to my music lesson - 
and together we tasted morsels of treasured co-wisdom unboxed
in the subtle joyful release of winter’s long longing.

Response to http://www.napowrimo.net prompt for Day Twenty-seven to:

“begin by reading Bernadette Mayer’s poem “The Lobelias of Fear.” Now write your own poem titled “The ________ of ________,” where the first blank is a very particular kind of plant or animal, and the second blank is an abstract noun. 

I missed seeing the forsythia release their golden petals this year.